THE COURIER
3
EMILY DICKINSON.
Written for THE COURIER.
Living, she avoided all observation. Dead, her volume of poetry
reveals her more than her portrait, or daily converse with her,
would have done. During her life-time only a few stray pootut were
published. Since her death in 1886 her poems and her letters have
been published by two of ber friends, Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W.
Higginson.
Strange that one who could not bear to be looked upon should
write poetry so subjective. She would not sit for her photograph.
She sketches herself in the following:
"I think just how my shape will rise
When I shall be forgiven,
Till hair and eyes and timid head
Are out of 6ight in heaven,"
Her father was the leading lawyer of Amherst, Mass. He was
aleo the treasurer of Amherst college. Once a year he gave a recep
tion at his house to the professors and students of the college and to
the leading people of the town. ''On these occasions' Mr. Higgin
son says, "his daughter Emily emerged from her wonted retirement
and did her part as a gracious hostess; nor would anyone have
known from her manner, I have been told, that this was not a daily
occurrence. The annual occasion once past, she withdrew again in
to her seclusion, and, except for a very few frienus, was as invisible
to the world as if she had dwelt in a nunnery." Her conduct is dif
ferently reported by Mr. Howells in the Atlantic Monthly, who says
that "sometimes when the guests were assembled she withdrew and
sat by herself in an adjoining room with her face averted." There
were years when she did not go outside her father's house, more
years when sho did not go outside the grounds. So morbidly afraid
ot revealing herself that at last she would not address her own let
ters she still intended her poems to be published the dedication
shows:
This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
Once the public is sure genius is not posing but really wishes to
conceal itself it never turns its eyes away from the hiding place.
Emily Dickinson would not mingle with her neighbors. She may
not have known enough about them to guess that she herself was a
subject of comment to them. Her queer ways ranBt have been a
boon to tbe dwellers in a monotonous New England town. "They
do say that Em-ly Dickinson has not been out of her front gate for
five years." There are great possibilities for the gossips in this open
ing sentence. She was matinees and federations to Amherst as 6oon
as she got old enough to know what she did not want to do.
Mr. Howells and Mr. Higginson give her high rank among poets.
They compare her to Heine and to Blake. In the Atlantic Mr.
Wood berry says she is unworthy the comparison and that oblivion
waits for morbid poetry. It may be so. When the first critic in
America says so it is probably true. Come to think of it I am glad
of it. I go to oblivion myself and we might meet. Her sympathy
with nature wan,. constant and close. Her poetry reminds me of
Emerson, of Heinof Thoreau.
THE GRASS
The grass so little has to do
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to love.
And bees to entertain, -. -
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
'-- And bow to everything;
And thread the dew all night, lik pearls,
And make itself so fine V.
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.
And oven when it dies, to pass
In odors so divino,
As lovely spices gone to sleep.
Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in soverign barns.
And dream the days away
The grass so littlo has to do,
I wish I were the hiy!
Sarah B. Harris.
BESSIE BROWfr M. D.
'Twas April when she came to town; tho birds had come, the bees
were swarming, her name, she said, was Doctor Brown; I saw at
once that she was charming. Sho took a cottage painted green,
where dewy roses loved to mingle; and on tho door, next day, was
seen a dainty little shingle. Her hair was like an amber wreath;
her hat was darker, to enhance it; the violet eyes that glowed bo
neath, were brighter than her keenest Iancot. Tho beauties of her
glove and gown the sweetest rhyme would fail to utter. Ero sho
had been a day in town, tho town was in a flutter. Tho gallants
viewed her feet and hands, and sworo they never saw such weo
things; tho gossips met in purring bands and tore her piecemeal o'er
the tea-things; the former drank the doctor's health with clinking
cups, the gay carousers; the latter watched her door by stealth,
just like so many imusere. But Doctor B usio went hor way un
mindful of the spiteful cronies, and drove her buggy every day, be
hind a dashing pair of ponies. Her flower-like face, so bright Bhe
bore, I hope that time might never wilt her; tho way she tripped
across the floor was better than a philter. Her patients thronged
tho villago street; her snowy slate was always quite full. Some said
her bitters tasted sweet, and some pronounced her pills delightful.
Twas strange I knew not what it meant she seemed a nymph
from Eldorado: where'er sho came, whero'er she went, grief lost ite
gloomy shadow. Like all tho rest, I too, grew ill; my aching heart
there was no quelling; I trembled at my doctor's bill, and lo! the
items still are swelling. The drugs I've drank you'd weep to hear!
They've quite enriched the gay concocter, and I'm a ruined man I
fear, unless- I wed the doctor.
MR. DUNROY'S READING.
Monday evening, in the chapel of tho University of Nebraska
William Reed Dunroy will read from his own writings, poetry and
prose. The readings will be interspersed with music. Ex-Cod
gressman W.J. Bryan will make a few introductory remarks. Mr.
Dunroy during his residence in Lincoln has impressed people with
his earnestness, and his gifts are such as to entitle him to the favor
able consideration of those who are interested in a young and
struggling writer and his conscientious endeavors. Mr. Dunroy
ranks with Carl Smith and other aspiring young Nebraskans who
have bravely essayed literature, and there is much in his work that
promises success in the field which bo has chosen. "Blades from
Nebraska Grasses," lately published, contains many graceful poems
of nature, some as dainty as his "Violets" recently published in TnE
Courier, and others in homely form. Mr. Dunroy will read from
this boo": as well as from his latest work, much of which was written
ror The Courier.
THE KISSING BRIDGE.
Written for TnE Courier.
Have you ever heard ot the kissing bridge?
It crosses the river of Time you know,
Down where the violets blossom and glow
Close by the thicket of Youth's green hedge,
It is ages old, and each rock and ledge
Has heard through the silvery water's How,
Full many a vow in the long ago,
And witnessed the giving of love's sweet pledge.
The fairest that ever was built J wis,
Over a river since time was begun,
This bridge which none of us ever miss,
Whose arches flash gold in the morning sun.
Alone together two loiter and dream
Though thousands are traveling offer the stream.
Isabel Richey.
m